A Study in Scarlet Bridges
by smoggylondonair
Summary: How much does the setting define the character? This fic puts modern!Sherlock Holmes in San Francisco, once again solving crimes in a fog-ridden city. Will tend towards the plot of Sherlock. Alternates points of view between John, Sherlock, and third person narration. Undertones of a romantic nature, nothing more than seen in the series.
1. Walks by the Marina

_A gunshot wound in my left shoulder. Pain. Then blackness. _

_You can be defined by your wounds and by your scars. The marks left on you can and will change you forever. _

I had been in the city for several weeks, taking aimless walks through Golden Gate park, stumbling aimlessly through the Marina. Life, in itself was aimless.

My name is John Watson. To say I'm a retired army surgeon is a lie, but it is one I tell frequently. Anything is better than saying "I got shot," even if I look too young to be retired. Afghanistan is a harsh place, harsher than most. It is not much harsher than San Francisco, although the ways that the two grate at someone are so inexorably different it is hard to compare them.

The marina is calming for me. It is peaceful in a strange way. It is crowded with tourists and people going about their business. It is noisy. What makes it so relaxing is that so many of these people know exactly where they are going and what they are doing. I have none of that luxury. I used to, but an honorable discharge and a Purple Heart blew those ambitions and expectations away.

I inhale the smell of salt, close my eyes, and—

"Watson! Dr. Watson!"

I whip around, military reflexes not quite having deteriorated yet. Behind me is Mike Stamford, who is not quite a friend, but the closest I have to one in a forest of steel. Mike, who went through medical school while I was doing my residency at St. Mary's, is still youngish, still cheerful.

"You might not recognize me. Stamford, remember? St. Mary's?"

I blink.

"Don't you—"

"Yeah, yeah. Stamford." I'm in a daze. He checks his watch.

"Look, I have time, if you want to get a drink or something…" he trails off, lets me finish.

"The Buena Vista?" I ask, as a cover-up. I don't remember many of the bars in town, and that's one of the more famous ones, a real tourist magnet. Besides, it's only a few blocks away.

"Um, sure. Irish coffee?" he looks a little bit skeptical, but, noticing the way I'm holding my shoulder subconsciously, he backs off and forces a smile. "Great."

"Where are you staying?" he asks once we are settled at the bar.

"Um, I've been moving around," I tell him, which isn't, strictly speaking, a lie. Hotel to hotel. Moving around… "The city is hard to afford on my pension. I might be moving somewhere smaller. Santa Rosa, I think—"

Mike looks horrified. "Santa Rosa is no place for a man below fifty. Boring! Are you sure? You could find a place to share, or something." He surveys me. "It can't be that hard. I mean, just today, I had someone tell me they were looking for a roommate. Economy's in flux. People are ready to downsize. You know, my salary at St. Mary's—"

I cut him off. "Wait, you had someone say they were looking for a roommate? Who?"

His eyebrows come together. "I didn't mean—I was just offering an example—I don't think…"

"Back up, Mike. _Who said they were looking for a roommate_?"

"Just a guy who's been hanging around at the hospital. I don't think you'd be interested. He's kind of an oddball. When I left for lunch he was beating a few bodies with a riding crop. Not the kind of guy you'd like to share an apartment with."

I smile involuntarily. "I'd like to meet him."


	2. 221b, Bryant St

Sherlock Holmes is gazing spitefully at the coroner. "It hasn't been claimed for several days. Legally I should be able to take it. Human Tissue Act, 2004."

"That's an act of Parliament in the United Kingdom."

He pauses and shrugs his shoulders. "It was worth a try. It's not as if it would be a major player in, say, a murder case."

"Yet that's precisely what you're using it for."

"Well, yes. But the murder in question has yet to be committed."

The coroner gazes at him, nonplussed. "Wait, so are you trying to tell me that—"

"No. Nothing like that. Future murders. Plural." He is still not convinced. Sherlock, tall, curly haired, and at times entirely intolerable, snaps his latex glove impatiently. "Look, it's for the good of everyone living in this city, now if you'd just let me…"

The coroner zips the body bag shut with one wrist movement. "You're not experimenting on it. That's final. Not now, anyways. Once I'm off duty or looking the other way, well…you know what, read between the lines. I'm getting coffee."

"Get me some. Black, two sugars."

"Yessir," says the coroner mockingly as he leaves the room.

"Idiot," mutters Holmes as soon as he's out of earshot. He follows him out of the room and heads upstairs to a chemical laboratory, where his experiments are waiting. He breathes a sigh of relief, having anticipated some problems keeping the experiments from cleanup.

He sits down, muttering to himself about sulfates and chemicals. He doesn't notice Mike Stamford entering the room until he looks up to check the time. "Oh, hello, Mike."

"How're you?" asks Mike, not sounding as if he really cares. Following him is a man that Sherlock doesn't recognize, and he recognizes everybody in this hospital. He notes his military haircut, his hands, indexes his entire appearance, taking a moment to consider each of these factors. Doctor, trained at St. Mary's, joined the military, discharged from Afghanistan judging by his unhappy appearance and the way he cradles his shoulder. Quite recently, looking at his tan. Sherlock bends over the microscope and smiles internally, as he always does when he makes particularly successful deductions.

"Fine, thanks. Who's your surgeon friend?"

The man gapes at him. "How did—"

"Never mind that." He drips some chemical into a bottle and shakes it vigorously, smiling to himself when it turns a dusty brown color. "Oh, yes!"

"Sorry, what?" asks the surgeon.

"Mud. I've developed a chemical test that can analyze soil taken from shoes in the San Francisco area. It can tell if someone's been outside the bay area. The chemical composition of the soil is tricky, but I found the right formula."

The surgeon looks surprised. "And is that useful to you?"

Sherlock smiles genuinely. "Oh, yes, very. Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"I didn't give it. John Watson." he offers his hand. "Ah, _Doctor_ John Watson."

Sherlock offers his left hand to Watson, but noticing that John offers his non-dominant hand quickly covers it up by wiping it on his suit jacket. "Sherlock Holmes. I hope you're enjoying San Francisco. It must be quite a change from Afghanistan."

Dr. Watson's mouth moves up and down, not quite sure what words to form. Sherlock bends down and removes a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, along with a pen, which he uses to write something down on the paper.

Sherlock checks his watch. "Oh, sorry, I should run. Here's my number." He hands John a small business card. "I think I wrote the address down there as well. Have a good day, Dr. Watson."

John is left in a stunned silence. It takes him several seconds to open his mouth and choke out, "How much have you told him."

"Nothing!" exclaims Mike. "But he does that to everyone!"

"Sherlock Holmes, huh." He glances down at the card. "Well, we'll see about him, won't we?"

Handwritten on the card were the words: _221b Bryant St. 2 pm tomorrow **don't be late Dr. Watson!**_ All that was printed on the card were four words, a name and an occupation. John studied them with some curiosity.

Sherlock Holmes

Consulting Detective

Dr. Watson is late. I am waiting here, at 12 minutes past the appointed time, and he is late, which is a shame. He looked like a promising roommate. People, of Dr. Watson's type—that is, military men and women—tend to be early, perfectly on time, or never show up at all.

I am beginning to despair of ever finding someone to share this apartment with when a cab pulls up and he climbs out. Restless night, obviously. Bad dreams? Probably. His hair is ruffled, he had two cups of coffee. No lunch. I can tell this, all of this, just from the first glance. The second would probably give me more, but he approaches me too quickly. "Mr. Holmes," he says, shaking my right hand with his right, which is his non-dominant. This I can tell from the way he has clipped his fingernails. So far, so simple.

"Call me Sherlock, please."

"John, then."

The street is unusually busy, and one can't help but notice the way the passerby move. There is something machine-like, yet entirely organic about the way that people communicate and travel in this city. All people are unpredictable, but at the same time, it all happens according to a pattern. I can tell right now that the woman on the side of the street opposite us is going to go to the cherry red car, the convertible. And now she's going to pull down her sunglasses even though today is perfectly cloudy. Even as she does this is starts to drizzle.

"Let's take a look?" asks John, a bit put off by the rain.

Someone else might exclaim at being startled. I just turn back around as if I've been listening to him this whole time—yes, he's been talking, I just haven't been actively listening—and tell him "yes, of course."

"Nice place," I say.

"Oh yes," says Sherlock Holmes.

"It might be hard to afford. You might want someone else to—"

"No, you'll suit nicely," he tells me with a very slight grin.

"I haven't even seen the inside of the—"

"You'll like it."

"Could you stop—"

"No."

"I'm not really sure if this arrangement is going to work." I pause. "Wait, you let me finish that—"

"Nope."


	3. A Settlement

[Author's note: if you want to see the house I picked for '221b', search 1771 Bryant St, San Francisco, CA, USA on Google Maps. Locations in this fic will be well marked for those who want visuals, particularly because San Francisco is such a beautiful city! Also, for anyone wondering, John and Sherlock do have _American_ accents in this fic—they both grew up in Northern California. More backstory to come.]

I climb the steps to our apartment, following the lead of Sherlock Holmes. Today, like yesterday, he is dressed smartly, in loafers, a suit, and a dark raincoat. His hair is damp with the rain that is pouring outside.

The second floor apartment is fairly comfortable. It is spacious, cozy, with a nice view of a greenbelt. "Good spot," I tell my potential new roommate. "But like I said before, I don't really know how well I'll be able to afford this, even sharing. You might want to look for someone else."

For once, he lets me talk, but he begins talking again immediately after I've finished. The truth is, even if I could pay the rent I'm not sure if I want to share a house with such an ass. He runs a hand through his dark curls, looking for all the world one of those guys who manages to defy all the naggings of self-consciousness but still reels girls in like nobody's business.

Now that I think about that, who knows, maybe he is one of those guys. There are lots of them, I'm sure, who like that type. Moderately intelligent; tall; dark; handsome. And a complete dick, of course. I've had a few girlfriends myself, but most girls like bad boys and I have _never_ been one of those. For one thing, I'm short, and I've always obeyed school rules. I didn't usually get drunk on weekends during college or medical school. I had straight Bs, like most smart guys. The only thing I've ever excelled in is saving lives, which is nothing small, but it hardly reels the ladies in. Even being a soldier didn't help that much.

Something about Sherlock, though, defies the whole standard of bad boys, and there is a part of that that just grates me the wrong way.

"Problem?" he asks, looking particularly irritating in this room's half-light. I realize that I'm frowning.

"No. Nice place. I like it." I cringe once the words leave my mouth. I should come across as displeased. I like the apartment. I don't like the guy I'd have to share it with. I can feel my eyebrows pressing together, because I know if he makes a decision that he likes me I will not say no. I can't say no.

"Affordable, too. The landlady cut me a deal."

"For what?"

"Her husband got himself thrown into prison after he perpetrated an internet scam in…" he pauses and closes his eyes as if remembering. "…Switzerland. I gave her a hand."

"You got her husband out of Swiss prison?"

"No, I made sure he stayed there."

I open my mouth, sure that this atrocity must be made up. He must be some kind of scam artist or practical joker, because surely—

"Ah, I see. One of those. No, I'm not much of a joker."

"How did you—"

"I think this will work just fine, don't you?"

"I'm not really so sure," I say, quickly and hushed so that he won't find the time or inclination to interrupt me. "By the way, I looked you up online last night. No Facebook page. That's interesting."

"Not particularly," he notes, looking at his nails. "These need trimming…oh, no, I don't have a Facebook. No LinkedIn either, so don't bother looking. I do have a—"

"Blog," I finish, relishing the opportunity to interrupt him.

"So, what did you think?"

I chuckle involuntarily, but quickly choke it off. Like he said, he doesn't seem like much of a joker. Who knows what kind of offense he might take at my laughter?

"What?" he looks concerned. Maybe even just a little bit hurt. _No_, I decide, evaluating him. _He's definitely not one of those womanizing types_. "Didn't you like it?"

"You said that you could tell an Amtrak train conductor from their shoes and an Internet porn addict from his sleeves? I don't know, seems a little…suspect."

"Can I see your phone?" he asks, smirking.

"_What_?"

"Can I see your phone?"

"Alright." I hand over my tarnished Droid, bearing an inscription with my brother's name. I'm not sure why he wants it. I have a limited plan so it's not like he could text with it. Besides, surely he has a phone of his own. He turns it over, examining it, doing some scrolling, flips it open to view the keyboard.

He hands it back to me without ever pressing any send button.

"You have a brother," he says. "He lives in San Francisco. He has recently split up with his wife although he's having second thoughts. _He_ left her. He is an alcoholic, careless, probably well-off, and probably older than you. He cares about you, but you don't care that much about him. You two don't get along."

I am left speechless. He must have looked me up, must've checked me on the internet. But then how would he know about Harry's drinking? His wife—they'd only told a few people they were splitting up, and how would he know if Harry was having second thoughts about the split? He'd mentioned it to me, but only in person. He hadn't even told his wife! My incredulity is interrupted by a knock at the door.

The landlady opens the door. "Mrs. Hudson, who is it?" asks Sherlock, calling down the stairs.

"Official-looking man," she says.

"Fantastic!" he exclaims.

"Oh dear," I hear the landlady mutter.

Idiotic Lestrade, coming to my new apartment as a well-wisher instead of bringing a case.

"So, you don't have a case for me?" of course, I know just from looking at him that he doesn't, but I let my hopes get up so much that I just need confirmation.

"I head you have a roommate," he says with a smirk.

"Yes, a doctor."

"So she's a doctor?"

"Dr. Watson. _John_ Watson."

Lestrade's smile slips, though the idea that he thought I was moving in with a woman makes me smirk. A glance down at his hand tells me that he hasn't filed for divorce yet. Possibly he thinks that if I have hope for romance, anyone does. I can't be sure; I never claimed to be the most adept psychologist.

"Tell me when you have a case."

"Yes, mother," says Lestrade. I don't reply. He leaves. I climb the stairs, seventeen of them up to our apartment.

The walls are scored with the marks of years and years of people living in this house. As long as I live here, I won't be able to move anything, take glances, look at the ceiling, without learning everything about them, which constantly drives me up the wall. I like knowing about living people. Learning private details about dead people unnerves me, at least when they're not murder victims. It is the price, however, of living in the San Francisco area. The houses are old, but there's nothing I can do about that.

I can never tell people about this little problem I have with deductions about those who have passed on. Possibly a psychologist would tell me this is because I am afraid of my own mortality, which is true. But then I would get prescribed something, which is about the furthest thing from desirable I could ever conceive.

Telling someone would make me seem fallible. In my line of work, seeming fallible is a capital mistake, even if you are constantly improving, constantly trying to solve problems that you just haven't gotten to yet.

"Sherlock!" shouts my roommate, or at least he will be if I have made accurate deductions. Financially, he has no choice but to take my offer. Humans, however, do irrational things, and although refusing this deal may be one of them I don't know Dr. Watson enough to tell if he will do so.

"Yes?" I enter the room.

He pauses. "I think—"

"You think? Oh really? Brilliant!"

"You're not making this an easy decision."

"Life, Dr. Watson. Life isn't easy."

"I know that, you insufferable—look, I've made up my mind."

"And you've decided…what?" I'm not holding my breath; I can see the decision in his eyes.

"I'm moving my things tonight. We'll settle the rent when I come back."


	4. To Berkeley

"My work, John, is going nowhere," says Sherlock Holmes, throwing down a newspaper and cracking his knuckles. I know where this is headed.

He and I have been living together four days, and while he makes for an interesting roommate, he is also intolerable. I wince as he reaches for his antique violin and begins pull the bow across the strings.

"Not this again!" I exclaim, plugging my ears with my fingers. "I can't tolerate it!" I freeze as he begins playing Bach —my favorite classical piece: his violin sonata.

"How did you—"

"I just knew." He smirks.

He's been doing this all week, the interrupting thing. It's not as annoying as it was at first. Or, at least, it's not enough to make me reconsider this arrangement. It's a beautiful apartment, with a nice enough park on the other side. He even lets me borrow his car whenever I need it, to get groceries or anything I need. Even to look for a job.

"I'm going out."

"But I'm not finished!" he protests, giving me a slightly…pleading look as he rips it out on his violin. "Besides," he says as he stops his bow mid-piece. "I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner."

"Are you asking me out?" I wonder, confused. He looks nonplussed. "On a date?"

It dawns on him, and he looks very annoyed. "No. I'm just bored."

It occurs to me that I haven't seen him consume anything but coffee since we moved in together. "How long has it been since you ate?"

He shrugs, which is a feat with the violin on his shoulder. "Five days, six days, maybe. Let's see, what day is it?"

He's hopeless. "Wednesday."

"Sorry, five days."

I roll my eyes. "Have any place in mind?"

"Yes, a small place in Central Berkeley."

"That's across the bridge!" I exclaim, not sure if I'm willing to brave evening traffic just to go to a restaurant. Particularly with Sherlock Holmes, god help me!

He runs a hand through his hair. Again. Why I am so particularly fixated on this gesture is beyond me. It's probably just because it pisses me off so much. "It's worth it, believe me."

"It had better be." I roll my eyes. "So, should be take your car?"

"There's a park I'd like to go to first."

He's messing with me, right? Of course he's messing with me. It's a foggy day, the sun just setting. It's bound to be freezing outside. Who in their right mind would want to go for a walk right now? Wait, who am I kidding? This is Sherlock Holmes; my new roommate, and he does whatever the hell he wants! I clench my hand, then look down at it.

Finally, I find the guts to vocalize my objections, not just for myself, but for his well-being. "No. You haven't eaten in five days. This place first, then we can go traipsing around a park."

"Big words." He smirks.

"Shut up! I am this close to—" I stop before he can interrupt me, then start again. "We're getting you something to eat. Now."

I know by now that Sherlock knows exactly where he's going anywhere in San Francisco, and for the most part anywhere else that's got BART. I, however, don't have a GPS in my head, so I take this opportunity to grab Sherlock's coat and extract his iPhone before handing it over to him. My Droid's GPS has been malfunctioning for months, since before Harry even gave it to me.

"So. This place. What's it called?" I say as if I'm wondering, when really I just want to put in directions.

"The Thai Café," he tells me, cradling his head. He probably has a headache. Not that uncommon after a five-day fast. I chuckle. There are probably dozens, if not hundreds, of restaurants called the Thai Café around here. When I put the name in, four pop up in our immediate vicinity. I extend the radius to include Berkeley, and six more show up. Only one of them, however, promises "enough spice to make you beg for mercy". Definitely Sherlock's style, I decide, and grab his keys from the coffee table.

We approach the Bay Bridge in utter silence, so once we pull onto it, I'm taken aback when I hear a deep voice come from my right. I wouldn't believe it was he making conversation if he wasn't the only other person in the car.

"How much did you get to know this city during college?"

I'm shocked. He doesn't usually make conversation, unless it's about himself. I stutter for a moment. "Not well," I finally say. "I didn't ever venture far from St. Mary's. Studies, you know. So absorbing. How about you?"

"Me, I went to Stanford," he admits. "But I've made it a hobby of mine to have the whole city mapped out in my head."

"I've noticed," I tell him.

"You've noticed." He snorts. "That makes one thing."

I roll my eyes for approximately the two hundred thousandth time in the past four days. I don't reply. "You complain about work," I eventually muster. "But I still don't know what you do."

"Haven't you noticed?" he wonders, as if struck by my stupidity.

"No, I haven't."

Guess, I think. He's going to tell me to guess. "Guess," he challenges me.

"PI," I guess.

"Maybe." He smirks.

"That's not an answer! You know all these things about me, but I know nothing about you except that you're an insufferable asshole and 'maybe' that you're a PI. Answers, Sherlock. Please." I hate reducing myself to begging, but I figure it's the only way that I can extract some answers from what I have already acknowledged as that brilliant, irritating mind of his.

"I'm a consulting detective," he says, and I am surprised that he acquiesced. Still, that doesn't clarify anything. So, mercifully (because I don't want to ask and feel like an idiot) he says. "When the police have an issue or need to make a consultation, they come to me and tell me what the problem is. So I listen, and I tell them. Or I come to a crime scene and take a look myself, which is always preferable. The eyes of the regulars never see much."

"So, you are a PI. Does anyone besides the police ever come to you?"

"Oh, yeah, lots. Not often enough, though."

I grin. "I gathered that. You seem bored a lot."

He pauses, stares out the window at the bay, and then at the approaching lights of Emeryville. "That," he says, "is an astute observation."

And so it happens that Sherlock Holmes and I laugh together for the first time. It is the kind of laughter that could constitute reckless driving. I'm not sure why I find it so funny, what he just said, but for some reason it is completely hilarious. It may be the first time we share a good chuckle, but it is by no means the last.


	5. Hound of the Bascovilles

[I have wanted to use this pun forever! For interested parties, the scoville unit is a unit of spiciness used to rate peppers and hot dishes. It'll make more sense after reading. Enjoy. Hope this chapter makes you laugh!]

Interesting city, San Francisco. Hard to drive in. I might make a bit of a fuss over the fact that my roommate has commandeered my car, but secretly I'm pleased. It's hell, navigating traffic, even at this time of day, when everyone who went into the city is back in the suburbs and everyone who went out into the suburbs is back on the peninsula.

The ebb and flow of the working class—of people in general—is one of those things I can't help but notice and follow. I can't help but watch the four million people going about their lives, their dull, boring, average human lives, and wonder how so many of them can be satisfied with it all.

Sometimes I wonder how I can be satisfied at it all. I get cases infrequently enough. Beside me, John pounds the steering wheel and curses openly. Perhaps this is something that comes from the army.

"Stop looking at me like that," he chastises me.

"Like what?"

"Like that! Out of the corner of your eye like that. If you want to look at me, just look, okay?"

"Why?"

"It's creepy! Don't you realize that?" Suddenly, something dawns on him. "You don't notice that." His brow furrows and he turns his attention back to the road. We're pulling into Emeryville now, quickly approaching the toll.

"I have FasTrak, just keep driving," I remind him.

"Right," he says, as if he remembered all along. He didn't. I doubt he even remembered about the toll.

* * *

I doubt we'll be able to find a parking space closer than two blocks away, so when I see one close enough, I take it. It's only once we climb out of the car that I suddenly become very self-conscious about being accompanied by Sherlock Holmes. "Fantastic," I think to myself. "With him around I'll never find a girlfriend in this town."

It's not as if Sherlock would be unattractive, if I were actually gay, but I realize that his presence might become, in itself, problematic.

The Thai Café looks unassuming. It's a dingy little place, probably violating a dozen health codes and fire regulations, but when I peek inside I'm surprised to see that it is surprisingly under crowded and clean. A portrait of a man hangs in the back, and incense fills the whole place with a smoky, ethereal atmosphere. A few touristy types hang in the back, trying each other's dishes and gagging. Everyone looks as us when we enter. This is San Francisco. Gay couples are hardly a novelty, but these are tourists. The way they're looking at us makes me cringe.

My fears are compounded when a short man at the front greets us—he's shorter than me, which is saying something—and his first words to us are, "Sherlock! Table for you, and your date."

The horror on my face must be apparent because Sherlock takes another one of his infuriating side-glances at me and smirks. "Yes, just the two of us." I haven't felt this embarrassed since I got truly wasted for the first time one weekend in medical school and accidentally barbequed a spleen.

"I'm not—"

"Romantic table in the corner," says our host. "I will get candles."

"I'm not his date!" That comes out louder than I really wanted it too. We've attracted the attention of the entire restaurant.

"No, it is fine. We don't mind," says the host. _How's that spleen taste, John?_, I think to myself.

"If you're embarrassed, you can take the car." Sherlock leans over to me and speaks in a hushed voice. All the other diners are startled by my outburst, speaking in whispers while looking at us out of the corners of their eyes. "I'll take the BART back."

"No, I'm fine." Which isn't true. I'm about to degenerate into hysterics. This is worse than the spleen. Way worse than the spleen. "So, what are you getting?" I scan the menu, which has several options for stir-fry dishes, noodle dishes, and curry dishes. The smell, once I get over the whole humiliation of it all, is delicious. I'm really hungry, I realize.

f get to the bottom of the menu. There are five options for spiciness, _Wuss, Medium, Hot, Thai Hot, _and _Volcano Hot. _A side note indicates _Volcano Hot _and says "not for tourists!" Okay then. Sherlock smirks.

"Quit doing that."

"Doing what?"

"That smirking thing. It's annoying."

He frowns. "It's my face."

I sigh. The waiter comes by, a huge, naughty grin on his youthful face. I want to punch him. "What will you be having, Sherlock?" It's like he's trying to fake professionalism, when I really know that he's going to take loads of gossip and misinterpreted gestures of affection back to the chefs.

"The usual."

"Volcano hot?" asks the server.

"You know me." So I suppose that's a yes.

"Uh, the same," I say.

The waiter frowns. "You sure? Have you been here before?"

"No, but I'll be fine." The waiter looks skeptical. "Really." He turns tail back to the kitchen.

"So, come here often?" I ask Sherlock sarcastically.

"Lots." He doesn't seem to detect my sarcasm. So I turn our discussion to college, the only thing that I can really tolerate discussing. Not military service. That's too painful. Ditto for high school. "So, Stanford. That's big. What did you major in?"

"Oh, this and that." Which isn't really an answer, but if that's the game he wants to play, who am I to deny him that? He nods at me. "Pre-med, I assume."

"Of course," I acknowledge.

Our food comes. "So, I guess you don't have a girlfriend." Despite how this guy might downplay my intelligence, that's a leap I can make. If he did, these people would know her.

"No."

"Yeah, I figured." I twirl a few noodles around my fork and move it towards my mouth.

"No, don't eat that," he says.

"What? But—"

"No, really."  
"What, you think I can't handle it?"

He chuckles. "I think? No, I _know_. We're not taking any trips to the emergency room tonight. I'd have a lot of explaining to do. Not worth it."

As if to spite him, I swallow the whole thing in one go. "Holy shi—" I say through the mouthful. It's fire, fire in my mouth. Oh god.

He hands me a napkin, and with patent disregard for manners of any kind I spit the offending stuff out and vigorously scrape my tongue. I grab his water and chug the whole thing, anything to make it stop; anything to cool my mouth.

"Could we get some milk for John here?" he asks the waiter, who tsks me.

"I warned him," he says, shaking his head.

"I know you did."

"Just for you, Sherlock. Usually we just let them suffer. Also, the milk might be a bit…suspect. Is that okay?"

"It's fine." I want to protest, say that no, it's not okay, but my mouth is otherwise occupied.

"Here, take this." Wait, where did the milk come from? Didn't Sherlock just ask for it? The room is rocking just a little bit. I take a sip, and it's disgusting, but at least it takes away the awful pain in my mouth.

"Thanks." It's escaped my notice that by now, by some superhuman feat, half of Sherlock's entrée is gone. He's sweating, holding onto the table, but he's not begging for water like I was so I assume he's all right. He slaps a twenty and a ten onto the table and stands up, swaying a little bit. His face is red.

"Are you okay?"

"Never better," he says. We leave.

"Have a nice night," says our waiter.

Don't think I missed the innuendo there, but I guess I'll just have to get used to it.


	6. The Consultation

"Dr. Watson!" Oh god, what is it? Not him again. Not at…is it really four-thirty in the morning?

It's late in the year. It's been a while since I moved in with Sherlock Holmes. Three weeks, maybe? The cloudy San Francisco light filters in through the windows. It's not like this far out in the suburbs. You wouldn't think that up in wine country or over to the east, it would be that different, but it is. It's sunnier. Less gloomy.

And yet for all the gloominess, it's totally, utterly beautiful. I sit up. A single shaft of light shoots through the window, although it's still mostly dark outside. Most mornings, because I don't have anywhere I have to be, I just lie or sit in my bed and watch the particles of dust filter around through the sky. My room has a window that looks out onto the greenery on the opposite side of the street, so some mornings I just people-watch.

A few dust motes swirl in the air, light up by the spare moonlight as I hear footsteps thunder up the stairs to my room.

"John!" says Sherlock, and I can tell even though I'm not looking at him that he's probably fully dressed. In fact, he's probably been waiting for me to get up, because most mornings I'm up before him. His voice is energetic, so unlike the brooding Sherlock I've known for the past few weeks that sits in a chair for hours on end and only moves to pick up his violin.

"Yes?" I ask. Unlike him, I am not energetic this morning. I feel drained. I have been utterly devoid of energy to do anything ever since the Thai restaurant episode. "What do you need?" I roll over to see him, and it's just as I expected. He's wearing an expensive suit, like the kind I've never been able to afford, and he's buttoning up a raincoat.

"A case!" he exclaims, his eyes sparkling. "Finally, a case!"

"What kind?" I wonder, having figured that he was such a—pardon my French—shitty detective that no one ever consulted him on anything. I thought maybe the whole thing about being a consultant to the police was just him putting on airs for his new roommate.

"Murder!" He is too excited for it to be natural. "The police," he says, his face flushed, "are utterly flummoxed. They have no idea what to do. They found some tourist from Cleveland dead in his hotel room three months ago, and it just looked like some suicide. But a week later, they found a woman across town, and she died the exact same way. I've been begging Lestrade to let me in on the case for weeks, but he hasn't—"

"Who's Lestrade?" I cut in. The name sounds familiar. "And wait, did you just use the word 'flummoxed'?"

"Inspector for SFPD," he explains. "Get dressed."

Now I remember. "That Lestrade, the guy who has been investigating—"

"Yes, get dressed."

"What about—"

He rolls his eyes while he says, "I'll make you breakfast while you get ready."

"Also," I continue, "what do you need me for?"

"You're a doctor, and a pretty good one from what I gather. Always useful to have a doctor." He gives me a genuinely sincere smile. This isn't a smirk, it's real, and that's enough to get me out of bed and into my clothes in record time.

"Take a coffee," he says.

"What?"

"Coffee. Take some."

"Why."

"Because that's all that I've made for breakfast for you."

"What? But you said—"

"Never mind what I said. Let's get moving. Early day today, we've got a case!" he claps his hands together and suppresses a smile. If he's always like this when he's got something to do, I wish he had a case every day. I take a good look at him. He seems alive with energy. Even his dark curly hair stands on end, as if the lively vigor that has taken over his person cannot be contained and has manifested itself as static electricity. He leans back and drums his fingers on the kitchen counter while I drink my coffee. "Hurry up!" he barks.

"Okay, okay!" I gulp down the dregs and wash out the cup. "Alright, let's go."

The traffic is really quite subdued at this time of the morning. It's a Saturday, so no one is headed to work. The streets are as empty as they ever get in a city like this one. "It's over in Oakland," he tells me. Once again, I am behind the wheel. Honestly, I'm afraid he's going to faint. I haven't seen him eat in ages.

"Go across the bridge, yes, no, you're not going the right way, if you drive fast we can pay less at the bridge, hurry up—"

"SHUT UP!" I shout, and slam the brakes. Reckless, I know, but I can't stand it. "I _know_ how to drive."

He goes silent. Then: "Take a right here."

I blink, not sure if I'm willing to believe that he has the gall. But for what feels like the thirtieth time today, I remind myself that of course he has the gall. He's Sherlock Holmes.

"Take 14th here."

"Just tell me where I'm going."

"It's an abandoned house on Chestnut. You'll know it when you see it. No, no, no, keep going…_THERE_."

"Looks unassuming."

"Doesn't everything?" He pauses. "Well, unless you're me. To normal people, I mean."

"Exactly what is it that I'm doing here?"

"Like I said, you're a doctor. With all the privileges and skills that come with the same. Ah, Lestrade."

Lestrade is exactly how he looks in the newspaper pictures—short, commanding, perhaps going a little bit grey, but still smiling. He looks grim now, though. When he sees Sherlock, his entire body relaxes and the lines vanish on his face to such a degree that I suspect psychosis. After all, who would become relieved at the sight of Sherlock? Just seeing someone with the same haircut makes my blood pressure shoot up.

"Who's this?" asks Lestrade.

"Friend of mine," says Sherlock.

"Colleague," I cut it. 'Friend' is often a euphemism for something else. Colleague…well, it would take an imaginative person to misinterpret that.

"Wait, Sherlock, I'm breaking every rule in the book just letting you in on this case, you can't have other people coming along. It's not right. It's not ethical."

"Since when has consulting me and taking all the credit ever been ethical?"

"I didn't realize that you objected to our arrangment."

"I don't, I'm just pointing it out. Give me ten minutes, but let Dr. Watson come in."

"Is that you?" he asks, staring pointedly at me.

"No, I was talking about the _other_ doctor, the one that I threw off the Bay Bridge this morning! Of course he's Dr. Watson, who else would he be?"

Obviously his mood is not improved by the early-morning wakeup call. I'm getting him something to eat, stat. "Is he always like this?" I ask Lestrade once he's out of earshot.

"I thought you knew him," chuckles Lestrade.

"I do, I was just wondering if maybe—"

"No, he's always like this." He laughs. "Sorry to break it to you. So how do you know him?"

"We're sharing an apartment," I admit.

His eyebrows go up. "My heart goes out to you," he says.

"You and everybody else."

"So you've been living with him for a while." This isn't a question.

"Very astute. Three weeks."

"Really, why haven't I heard of you before?"

"I didn't know he'd seen you since."

"Almost every day."

"Then why—"

My question is cut off when Sherlock comes up, a pair of latex gloves on his hands and the appropriate CSI-style gear over his clothes. "Enough chit-chat, John! I brought you here for the crime scene, not for social hour." He catches me by the sleeve and drags me to where the police have set up. "Put one on." I oblige without arguing. If I've learned one thing in the past few weeks, it's that you have to pick your battles with Sherlock Holmes. I don't pick this one. It's just not worth it.

"Upstairs," says Lestrade. "He was found by a couple of kids. Hasn't been here long, maybe since last night. We haven't got the coroner in yet."

"Probably—" I yawn. "—because he's still in bed."

Sherlock takes the steps two at a time and shouts from the summit, "Oh, this is wonderful!"

Before I can ask, Lestrade answers my question, "Yeah, he acts like this every time."

I figured as much.


	7. The Proposition

"So, we've got a dead body."

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Dr. Watson, now go and tell us how he died."

"Asphyxiation. Drunk, maybe? Passed out. Vomit, possibly, but I don't smell anything. Drugs? Dead maybe six hours."

"But you know what it is."

"What?"

"You read the Chronicle this morning. Big deal, you know. Two suicides under the same circumstances, looks a bit suspicious. Unrelated as far as we know. Just the two of them."

"Wait, so…this is one of them? A suicide?"

"Or a murder."

"We're thinking murder," cuts in Lestrade.

"Well, then—"

"Thank you, Dr. Watson, you're no longer needed, there's a BART train on its way back to the peninsula in a few minutes, you might as well hop on."

"Wait, Sherlock—"

"It's fine. I know you don't want to hang around." Before John could reply, Sherlock turned to the body and examined it, picking up hands, examining wedding rings, running his hands over the clothes. None of it made any sense to John, but evidently it did to Sherlock, who said, "It looks like he was recently divorced or widowed, but not married for long before that. Just got into town from Cleveland, although I have to give you some credit because you had already figured that out. Ah, Mormon, although that was trickier. Except he's recently left the church, who knows why?"

"You're not making this up, are you?" asked Lestrade in disbelief.

"How did you know about his marital status?" John wonders.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I'd need quite an imagination. Look at the tan on his finger. He lived in Cleveland, and providing that he hasn't gone on vacation recently, the tan indicates that he hadn't been married long before being widowed or divorced—my money is on divorced—very recently."

John is at a loss. "The Mormonism?"

"The creases and general arrangement of his clothes suggest that at one time he wore a temple garment, as Mormons will. However, he has the smell of alcohol on him, and not strong alcohol either. Wine, so he was drinking socially."

"Wow," says John. "That's amazing."

"You might want to say that a bit more quietly."

"Sorry."

Sherlock blinks. "It's fine." He smirks. "So, now to tracking down the murderer." Lestrade motions to break in. It hasn't been confirmed that it's a murder yet. "That's important." He clasps his hands beneath his chin and closes his eyes. "There were footprints on the lawn. Two men, one of them approximately…my height, the other a few inches taller than John here." He opens his eyes, looks at the body. "That would be our dead man here. The murderer, then, has a long stride, as long as mine, and a proclivity for wearing wingtips. Also…"

Sherlock pivots and turns around, swings the door closed. Behind it there is the word "REVANCHE" in red paint.

"Jesus, how'd we miss that?" wonders Lestrade.

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock snorts. Then he pauses "Don't take offense to that."

"I didn't." It's Lestrade's turn to snort. "At least once a day you call me that, and have I ever taken it personally?"

"I seem to recall the first time."

"Well, I'll give you that one."

"So, what is this? Not a last name, surely—"

"Revenge. French for revenge."

"Wait, so we're looking for an angry, tall Frenchman?" Lestrade takes another look at the writing. "Jesus, that's blood!"

"No, you're looking for a mild-mannered American of approximately average height. Ever heard of a red herring?" He cocks one eyebrow. John can't help but be appalled once again by his sheer awfulness. "The handwriting is distinctly American. There are clear signs. No, let me conduct my investigation. You conduct yours. And of course it's blood. What do you expect they'd use, acrylic paint?"

"But there aren't any wounds on the dead man."

"Conclude what you will."

"So that's it then?"

"I assume."

* * *

"You're a real asshole, has anyone ever told you that?" We're back in the car, headed back to Bryant Street. I realize, after a slight epiphany, that the man in the passenger seat is almost as much of an enigma to me as he was the day I moved in. I haven't learned much about him. He seems generally friendless, and I haven't met or heard him mention any relatives.

"They don't usually ever stop."

"That was really amazing, back there." And it was. Maybe he doesn't need any more praise, but I can't restrain myself. Maybe I'm just a sucker for cleverness. I've never met anyone like this, though, and I can't help but wonder if there are others just as clever and interesting of if he is one of a kind.

"No one else seems to think so." Oh, now he's pouting. This is a side I've never seen before: Sherlock, the brooding egomaniac. Well, maybe I have seen this side before, but not as magnified as it is now.

"Well, what do people usually think when you make those…"

"Deductions." I'm thankful to him for supplying the word. "It's not really so much about what they think as it is about what they say."

"Well, what do they say?"

"Fuck off."

I chuckle. "That's not really so—" I stop when I see his expression: shocked. "Okay, so it's bad. You're so brilliant it shouldn't matter."

"No, don't take this exit."

"See what I mean? You know this city back to front. You can read people like nobody else I've ever met. You can just look at people and know their life story and their innermost thoughts. Do you know anyone else who can do that?"

He mumbles something that sounds vaguely like _my craw, _but I can't make it out.

"Look, Sherlock, it's fine. Sulk like that." I roll my eyes, not really willing to put up with his crap, especially since it's still really early in the morning. "What time is it?"

"Six forty-five."

"God. We're going home, and we're going to bed, and we're eating something." I glance back at him. "You, too. You can't survive indefinitely on the air."

"I'm going to prove you wrong someday."

I laugh out loud, although internally I'm concerned. "You try that."

"No, I mean, in your conception that I'm the smartest person that's ever lived. There's someone you'll meet someday."

I chuckle again, sure that he's just being modest, although he's hardly the type to underrate his intelligence. "Okay."

"Here we are. 221b Bryant Street. Home sweet home."

"Please refrain from any further use of clichés in my presence," he says. Evidentially, all traces of modesty or humbleness have vanished from his person once again. "It upsets the digestion."

"Fine."

* * *

"I'm going for a walk." I look up from my novel and look around the apartment. There's nothing interesting going on at the moment. When he leaves I'll probably just pick up the violin again.

"I'll come with you."

"No!" it comes out very forcefully, and judging by his expression he didn't mean to shout it. He looks irritated. He's clutching his shoulder.

"Okay." I pick up the book again, then, having second thoughts, take my shoulder rest from a nearby end-table and pick up my violin. He leaves. The door slams. The dust in the air swirls. I watch him out the window as a black limousine pulls up to the front of the apartment and someone beckons him to get in.

I watch him refuse. I watch him panic at something—probably not a gun. That's not Mycroft's style. He gets in. Well. His return will be interesting.

* * *

The ride is quick and nondescript. I don't know San Francisco that well, so I have no idea where we're going. The driver seems to be ambling on, doubling back, going out of his way. Still, it takes less than twenty minutes for us to get where we're going—a parking garage. Someone holds the door for me.

Standing a few yards away is a man, taller than me, but a touch shorter than my roommate. His most striking feature is his nose, which looks as if it was perhaps broken at some point. It was reset well, though, and only a doctor could tell the difference. He rests against an umbrella, and his clothes are expensive. _Opulent_. The expression on his face is nearly unreadable, although I can sense some air of satisfaction intermingled with pride.

"John Hamish Watson," he says. There is no question mark. He consults a notebook. "Sorry, _Dr_. John Hamish Watson. Formerly of the United States Army. Invalidated. Issued a purple heart. This is you?"

"Ah, yes," I say, afraid to lie but also reluctant to tell this man that he's right.

"I understand that you've recently moved in with Sherlock Holmes."

"Is that really any of your business?"

"It's been three weeks and you still haven't moved out. I'm impressed."

I chuckle. "So I guess you know him."

"I'm a friend of his."

"A _friend_?"

"I suppose you know him too." He chuckles. It's unnerving. "Well, the closest thing he has to one, anyway." He glances up and down my person. "Except possibly for you," he adds, frowning.

"So what are you?"

"An enemy."

"A _what_?" To be honest, I'm not exactly surprised.

"At least as far as he's concerned. He doesn't trust me."

"So why have you brought me here? To intimidate me? Ask me to carry a message?"

"No. I'm here to make an offer. I'm willing to perhaps ease your way in the world if you'd be willing to supply me with certain information. You do live with him, after all. None of the requests I'd make would be enough to make him suspect you. Just to keep an eye on him."

"An _eye_ on him? Are you sure it isn't more sinister than that?"

"Oh, you're moderately intelligent. I'm surprised."

I roll my eyes. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Don't you want to hear a number?"

"I've heard enough."

He sighs. The buttons on his suit strain. "The car will take you back." He turns around, headed in no direction in particular.

"I suppose that's it, then?"

He stops and looks over his shoulder. The expression on his face is oddly reminiscent of Sherlock. Frankly, it chills my blood. "Is it?"


	8. Data, Data, Data

_Wow, I actually haven't updated in a while. Hope you guys like this chapter, the few of you that read this story. There will be a lot of San Francisco geography coming in the next few chapters. After all, what's the point of moving them if you don't take advantage of it. By the way, Mycroft is a government official here, like in the series, but he travels the country a lot and has come to San Francisco to keep an eye on Sherlock and his new roommate. Expect to meet Anthea by name sooner or later._

* * *

Dr. Watson comes home with his temper running high. His face is flushed as he disembarks and comes stomping into the apartment. It's raining heavily now, and he didn't take his umbrella. So he opens the door of the apartment and hurries inside, soaking wet. Mrs. Hudson is going to throw a fit. I hear the door slam and the drops hit the floor and walls as John shakes his jacket out and grumbles.

"Met a friend of yours today," he grumbles irritably as he stomps upstairs.

I chuckle. So that's how Mycroft's been introducing himself these days.

"A friend?"

"An enemy, actually. Care to elaborate?"

Not particularly. "Which one?" I'm playing dumb, and it's nice to watch him squirm. I hate explanations, as do most people. The looks on peoples' faces almost make the whole tedious elucidation worth it, but that's a rare case. John just goes for a straightforward physical description. Not that I'm really listening. I already know what Mycroft looks like. Instead I survey his appearance. He must have spent a few minutes in the limo, but not very many. Mycroft hates conducting business out any given city he's staying in. At least it's nice to know where he is without having to research too much. He's always running around the country and it's dizzying to keep track of him. He'll probably be in San Francisco for at least a few days.

"Not really sure," says John, and I snap back to my current situation. "About yay tall,"—he holds up a hand a few inches above his head—"strange guy, offered me money to spy on you."

"Did you take it?" Of course he didn't.

"Uh, no."

He looks concerned. I really do doubt that he took it, but then again I could be wrong. That's a long shot though, so I tell him, "Shame." He looks appalled. "We could have used it to supplement the rent. If he's who I think he is, it would have been plenty." I chuckle. He glares at me.

"So what have you been doing this morning?" I gesture to my violin and he nods. "Going over the problem of the dead man in the house in Oakland?"

I frown. He glances down at my arm. "What are those? Are those…nicotine patches?" He still hasn't dried off. He's dripping on the rug.

It seems fairly obvious. "Yes." I snort.

"Is that three patches?"

"You can count, can't you?"

He stands there in the threshold, not quite sure what to make of me, I think. Apparently my rudeness borders somewhat on appalling. Not sure what to make of that. "Yes, I can count." I wasn't expecting him to respond so quickly. Normally people just stand there and open and close their mouths, a bit like a fish. Then they roll their eyes and walk away. I have to say that it is in some way a victory for John Watson that he could even respond to one of my gibes.

"So, why are you wearing three nicotine patches?"

I mumble something incoherent.

"Sorry?"

"I said, 'it's a three patch problem'." I look up at him. "There are problems, stupid problems, that don't require any patches. A straightforward murder that requires a little bit of thinking it a one patch problem. Something a little more complicated is a two patch problem. A crime of this magnitude can only be three patches."

"You have it systemized?" He collapses on the sofa and heaves a sigh. "Why am I not surprised? So what have you gotten together so far?"

"Lestrade just emailed." I close my eyes to maximize my memory and visit my mind palace, spewing forth everything I know. "The man is an Enoch Drebber, from Cleveland like I said before. He was a former Mormon, as I conjectured, having left the church in disgrace after he was put on probation. His wife divorced him after the event; presumably he converted because he was so in love, because he was not born a member of the church. These are the facts concerning the life of Enoch Drebber." I smirk and open my eyes. "Now, we'll set out to discover the facts concerning his death. Much more interesting."

"You find this entertaining, don't you?" Creases form over his eyebrows and his grey eyes grow dark. He walks into the kitchen and grabs a dishtowel, running it over his hair and winding up looking absolutely ridiculous.

"Of course I do. You don't understand what it's like to be bored to death every day of your existence. You don't know what it's like to exult in the puzzles you depend on the police to bring you. You're normal. Normal people can't understand."

He frowns. Deep lines form in his darkly tanned forehead. He smoothes his hair back down only to have it spring back up. "If I'm so normal, why did you pick me to be your roommate?"

"I was operating under the impression that you picked me."

He smiles and takes a seat. The damp on his clothes soaks through the upholstery. "I think it was the other way around. After all, if you hadn't liked me, you could have dragged me to some nasty apartment in the 'Loin and told me you planned on sharing it with me. I never would have known better."

"Why didn't I think of that? I could have gotten rid of you on day one."

"Then it would just be you and Mrs. Hudson."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

I look a little over to my left, where he's sitting, and he catches my eye. We both sit there, looking at each other, for a moment before he snorts and starts to chuckle. Soon enough, I join in. It feels like the first good laugh I've had in a very long time, excluding that time in the car. The buttons on my shirt are straining from the laughter that's involuntarily ripping its way up my throat. He smacks the armchair and tries to compose himself, drying the tears from his eyes and continuing to chuckle. "It's not even that funny," he says through his laughter.

"Yes it is," I correct him. "Of course." I chuckle again, trying to keep myself in check. It's not working. I grasp the armrest of my own chair and squeeze it, trying to get a grip. "No, of course it's not. It's not that funny at all."

"Who knew? All it takes to get through the rough exterior of the great Sherlock Holmes are a few misplaced jokes about the landlady."

This brings on a fresh round of laughter that lasts at least a full minute.

"I'm going shopping," he says finally, standing up and looking for the keys. "Or would you rather get takeout? Or eat somewhere else? I'm ready for a fresh round with Volcano Hot."

I pull the keys from my pants pocket and toss them to his outstretched fingers. He misses. "Sorry, can't. I have things to do back here." I make a noise that seems almost like a sigh, but it's not really. I prefer solitude. Better for thinking.

He catches me by the sleeve. His fingers are rough and callused. "No you don't. Let's get you some food."

* * *

_It was _exhausting_ to write an entire chapter from Sherlock's POV, but I really like writing him regardless. Please review this chapter, and do let me know whose POV you prefer: John, Sherlock, or omniscient. _


	9. The Dropoff

_Wondering why Sherlock drives, anyone? I explain it here. Also, very long prosaic passages about the Golden Gate Bridge, so if you're into action this chapter will probably be a tad disappointing._

* * *

We pull up to the apartment, bellies full, sleepy, and, to some degree, happy. Well, I'm happy. Sherlock just seems not-depressed, which is good enough for me because he acts miserable enough all the time. As soon as I step into 221b I'm overcome with a wave of energy. I'm not so sleepy after all.

Sherlock followed me up the stairs, his tread significantly slower than mine. Tired? Maybe. Thoughts racing at a million miles an hour? Certainly. "Can I borrow the car?" Somehow a change has taken place in the space of the last weeks. It is no longer _his_ car to me. It is _the_ car, free for my borrowing whenever I like because he always lets me. I want to take a walk, maybe see the city a little bit more. I haven't gotten to do much exploring, and I'm determined to get to know the city and at least have some basic grasp of geography.

"Where are you going?" he asks, unperturbed by my late-night request, removing his coat and hanging it up. He cricks his neck and unties his dark blue scarf. He must be tired, if he couldn't deduce that from the look on my face or god knows what other parts of my body.

"Walk."

He blinks, halfway through undoing the top button of his suit. "A walk?"

_Don't ask if you can come_, I think_. Please don't ask if you can come. I don't want you along, not this time._

"Sure, take the car. Get some gas on the way back if you remember. I'll pay you back." He's being kind. He knows that I'll be using his card anyway.

I open my mouth to tell him yes, I'll fill it up on the way back, but instead what comes out is "would you like to come?" I'm an idiot, not because I asked, but because it took me a while to realize that having him tag along is exactly what I want. Not that I'm attracted toward him, or anything. Not in that way. I want him along because despite his domineering presence, despite his rudeness and his hatefulness and his misanthropy, I find his presence soothing. My wound doesn't hurt as bad with him around. I can walk straighter. I don't feel as tied down by my new civilian status.

Sherlock lives in a world of villains and enemies and mysteries and crimes, and when I tag along with him (Because that's what I'm really doing, isn't it? It's me tagging along with him, not vice versa.) I feel like part of the excitement too.

"Where are you going?" he asks, his eyes heavy. His eyelids are drooping. How long has it been since he slept? A day, two days? I don't think he'd let himself go too long. He's aware that going so long without sleep causes inevitable brain damage. Or, at least, I think he is.

"Golden Gate Park, I was thinking."

"I have a better idea."

* * *

I hate driving. I learned when I was sixteen, the usual age in California. I grew up in Sonoma County, where everything interesting is so far apart that it's impractical not to have transport of some kind. And mother hated ferrying me around. Father was always in the city, having commuted. Mycroft…well, he was Mycroft. Unwilling to take his little brother for rides. So, for lack of any alternatives, I learned to drive.

My hatred of the whole activity started from day one. The driving instructor got up in front of the class and the first words out of his mouth were "Driving requires 100% of your attention." Attention is not exactly my greatest strength. I did the hours and passed the test, but just barely. Things got worse when he told us "Intelligent people often make the worst drivers." By that logic, I should have crashed into a pole my first day out on the road.

I've gotten better at driving while my mind is elsewhere, but I'm always mindful of what's going on, because if I get in a crash and die or become paralyzed from the waist or neck down, that's the end of the line for me. No more crimes to solve, because you're always one step behind the regulars, working your arms furiously to keep up and still failing. I always pay attention.

When John hands me the keys and says in his dry, sarcastic way, "Surprise me," I'm just a little bit annoyed. It's nice to have him to drive, so I don't have to, but I'm not going to refuse this one. He looks like a schoolboy outside a sweetshop. The prospect of a walk with me shouldn't be this inviting to him, not with the way that I treat him, but I don't feel like bursting his bubble, not this time of night.

I get in the driver's seat and put the keys in the ignition. The car is Mycroft's. I don't know anything about cars but this one's a Honda, I think. I bought it off him two years ago. With his ludicrous pay he gets a new car every two years. He also has his various limousines to ferry him around town (whatever town) during the day. He only uses whatever new toy he's got for night drives and emergencies. I lock the door, like a good little driving student, and wait until John is in the seat next to me before I start the engine.

It won't start. I try again. Still. I look to John for help. He chuckles a bit and says "Your foot goes on the clutch, Sherlock." Oh. I try it again with my foot in its proper place. No problems this time. I shift out of park and pull out.

I go up Bryant Street and take Van Ness up the peninsula. "So, where are you taking me?" he asks.

I arch my eyebrows. "I thought you wanted a surprise."

"Okay, fine, surprise me."

Left onto Lombard, drive until it changes to Doyle. I park to the side of the road, careful to shift into park and engage the brake. It's more important here than in most cities, because if your car rolls, it really does roll. There are no tourists at the bridge's information center at this time of night. When I look up the stars are just barely visible through a thin veneer of cloud. The air has a distinct nip about it.

It's a calm night, and the fog is just barely coming onto the land. The bridge, the beautiful one, is shrouded in it, and only the crest is visible. "Scarlet," says John, looking out onto the bay. "I like the color." Such a contrast to the steely grey of the Bay Bridge, which is beautiful in its own way, for the sake of industrialization and movement and sheer _people_, but I prefer the Golden Gate. It's idyllic, in a world that often has so little hope.

"Orange," I correct him, ever the curmudgeon. "It's actually painted orange."

He folds his arms and cocks his head downwards. "Scarlet. It's definitely scarlet. Just look at it. Orange is the color of…oranges. That, Sherlock, that is not orange."

"It's orange."

"Are you looking at it, Sherlock? It's definitely _red_."

"Oh for god's sake." I pause. "I'm not going to argue about this. That bridge is orange. It says so in all the tourist guides. Look, right here." I indicate a plaque with one slim white finger where it clearly states that the Golden Gate Bridge is painted _orange_.

John scoffs. "Someone was obviously color-blind."

"Maybe you're color-blind."

"What, that's the best you've got?"

"Fancy a walk?"

"What, on the bridge?"

"Yeah." I rarely ever succumb to slang like this. It's always _yes_, never _yeah_, always _no_, never _nope. _But somehow there are fewer appearances to keep up, fewer restrictions here on the bay in the middle of the night with the only real light coming from the bridge itself. There is something almost ethereal about the bridge at this particularly moment, as if it is suspended in midair. Almost like it's an Escher painting.

"Okay."

So we begin walking in silence. A few cyclists pass us by. We're actually walking into the fog at this point, and even I, the automaton, can feel the chill sinking into my skin. John, whose coat is not nearly as insulated, must feel even worse. I shiver slightly and keep walking. It is nearly two miles across the bridge, and by the time we're almost at the halfway point John is looking at me as if I'm crazy. His phone buzzes. He ignores it. "So are we just going to walk until we die of cold, or will we turn back at some point?"

"We'll just make it to the middle."

He looks at me doubtfully. He can't be wondering if I'm crazy, that's already been confirmed. It's old information. No, he's probably wondering if I'm suicidal. "You're not planning on jumping, are you, because if you are I'm somewhat obligated to stop you, just so you know."

I laugh. It's a cold, sharp sound, so unlike the warm chuckles that filled our living room when John was cracking jokes. "No, I'm not going to jump. I'm looking for someone."

His eyebrows come down. "You're meeting someone? What, are you insane? On the Bridge? At nearly midnight? What kind of person would—" He stops berating me. He already knows what kind of person would. _I_ would. So why is he—"…why am I even asking?" he wonders to himself. I keep walking until I reach the middle point. Someone brushes against me and I feel a piece of paper passed into my hand. Here we are. John is waiting for me. I would be surprised, except that I had the foresight to keep the keys. "Got what we came for."

"Good." His stance straightens and I can see the soldier in him, the one that seems to come back in trying moments. We cover the return trip much more quickly than our leisurely pace could do it before. We are both in a hurry to get in the car and turn the heat up.

The wind is picking up. We start running.

* * *

"That," I say, "was insane. You're a maniac, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Multiple times," he says. "Although usual they prefer 'psychopathic', 'insane', and 'disturbed'."

"Yeah, all those too."

"Nice to know that you care."

"Nice to know I'm not falling on deaf ears."

* * *

_This whole bridge and bay thing that Sherlock does is kind of my equivalent of his rhapsody about roses in 'The Naval Treaty.'_


	10. Turn Your Back

_One of my favorite chapters so far. Please tell me what you think! _

* * *

It's nearly midnight when we get back to the apartment, chilled to the bone and starved for sleep. Correction, _I'm_ chilled to the bone and starved for sleep. Sherlock looks as rejuvenated as if he's just come from a twelve-hour nap and a vacation in Jamaica, minus the tan.

I trudge up the seventeen steps that have become so familiar to me, inhale the smell of the contraband tobacco that my nostrils have become accustomed to, swing open the door that leads to the new life that I have somehow slipped seamlessly into. This is not the world I belong in, I think with a yawn. It never has. Sherlock deserves someone more exciting for his roommate.

Behind me, quietly, I hear a voice say quietly, "Go to bed, John."

I roll my eyes. "I'm an adult, Sherlock."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I can take care of myself." I pause. "Well, I suppose if that's an indication of adulthood, you must still be somewhere in early adolescence."

"Oh, very funny," he says with a sneer as he pushes past me into the apartment. Then he pauses. Thinking, I'm sure. "Get some sleep, though," he says forcefully, removing his coat and scarf for what seems like the thousandth time today, let alone the whole time we've lived here. I look at my own coat, old and hardly waterproof, fraying at the edges and the cuffs. I've had it since before Afghanistan. It's time for a new one. With that in mind, I strip it off and fling it to the side, stumbling to my room and collapsing into the gentle, welcoming folds of sleep.

The next day starts quickly and abruptly at six in the morning when a voice inside the first war nightmare I've had in months practically screams for me to get out of the way of gunfire and another then asks me if I can save a man suffering from a fatal gunshot wound and when I say no and offer my condolences the person says—

"John, get up!"

"I'm getting up," I mutter, throwing off the covers and shaking myself awake. Just a dream. It was just a dream. Five feet away is my roommate, once again fully clothed at a heinous hour of the morning. This time he already holds a steaming cup of coffee.

"No you're not. Hurry up." He folds his arms like an impatient child, barely balancing the coffee, and taps his toes.

"For God's sake, turn your back!" I say as I strip off my nightclothes.

He rolls his eyes and makes a noise somewhere between an exasperated sigh and a groan. "John, I really don't mind—"

"I mind!" I exclaim, impatient and exasperated and still tired from only having five hours of sleep. By now I've come to realize that this high-energy level is his normal state of being, aside from when he has no case. Those first few days, where he was dull and lethargic, where something of a fluke it seems. This is how his is most naturally. "Should I drive?" I ask, looking at his back as he continues to tap impatiently.

"If you don't mind."

"I don't. At least if you're going to do as shoddy a job as you did last night."

"I didn't do a shoddy job last night!" He twists his neck and looks at me through the corner of his eye. His voice takes on an agitated tone and his pale face flushes. This is a surprise. He's hardly defensive about anything. He is arrogant about the things he's good at, and indifferent about the things he's not. Methinks he might be a little bit touchy about driving. The question is, why?

"You stalled the car at four separate lights and parallel parked like I've never seen before in someone that's passed their test, at least in California. How long has it been since you've driven?"

"Six months," he mutters, in a bit of a sulk.

"Well, there you go," I tell him kindly, pulling on a shirt and buttoning it up. "There, you can turn around now."

"Good, let's go."

* * *

_Chapter ended up unintentionally Johnlock-y. This raises another question about Sherlock and driving: why does he care so much? To be answered later. Although you could probably make a good guess. _


	11. How People See You

_I'll let this chapter speak for itself. Mostly._

* * *

Mycroft taught me how to drive.

It was a painful experience for both of us, and it was probably what destroyed our relationship, in the end.

It always started out civil. I would climb in the driver's seat, he would climb into the passenger's seat, and we would drive. Easy.

The vineyards were always perfect. The rolling, golden hills never failed to stun me with their beauty and even in sizzling heat we were nice and cool inside a practically new car. We were two brothers, out for a relaxing drive through Napa.

But as my permit grew sweaty in my pocket and I began to tense over the wheel, he would begin muttering instructions. I would never obey them, so he would speak more loudly. That's where the trouble would begin.

Shouting, horrible shouting. Arguments. Me, imploring my mother to take over. She saying no. She was always too busy with society parties, going out to vineyards and mingling. She and father were older than most of the vintners in the area, but still young enough to go out every night.

Of course, by that time, I was sixteen and Mycroft was twenty-three. We were too old to tag along; no one would fawn over us and scratch under our chins. _Yes, these are my sons…honor roll…so proud…science awards…French language awards…_they would act so proud, so pleased, in public, but at home they were different people entirely. "Second place in the science fair? Sherlock, you're better than that.", "A 4.50, Mycroft? You could do better."

We should have turned against them, rebelled, left the house as soon as Mycroft turned eighteen. Instead, we turned against each other.

"Of course we can't drive you, Sherlock, what are we, your chauffeurs?" Mother would always say in her thick Yorkshire accent. So Mycroft continued with our lessons. Near the end it was close to unbearable. It would begin and end with yelling and I would break a dozen traffic laws in my attempts to prove to him that I didn't need his assistance. Or perhaps I would blow past stop signs and forget to signal simply because I was so wrapped up in our argument.

One night I stole the car. Three days before my driving test, I stole the keys from my mother's purse and pulled her expensive Mercedes convertible out of the garage.

The vineyards were more sinister at night. Most of the wineries had the lights on, either for private parties or just to advertise. The hills were lovely dark and tinged with powder blue. The disobedience of the thing set me on edge so much that I ignored everything I was doing and wound up so far from home I had no idea where I was headed until I saw the highway exit for Berkeley.

I'd travelled all the way to the city, through Marin County, so I turned back and made it home by sunrise. My parents never knew. Mycroft, I believe, suspected, when he saw the new scratch on the Mercedes and my tired eyes. I never said it outright.

I can never tell John any of this.

"So where are we going, anyway?" John is pulling out of the driveway. The car stalls while he waits for directions.

"The Central Police Station. It's on Vallejo, just head down 8th and over to—"

"I know where the Central Police Station is!" We head over towards 8th, but when we get there, he listens for my directions anyway.

"Yes, and a right here. Now down Vallejo…we're here."

"Have you solved it, yet?"

"No."

"Do you want to solve it?"

"People have died, John. Of course I want to solve it."

"That's never had any bearing on it before. You'd be ecstatic for people to die if it meant a few days of entertainment for you."

I fall silent and stare at my hands, callused and covered with scars. "Is that really how you think of me?"

He slams on the brakes as we pull up. "Of course that's how I think of you, Sherlock!" A horn honks somewhere, and he has to restart the car.

"You need to put it out of gear when you stop like that."

"I know how to drive a straight shift, thank you very much! How can anyone help thinking of you that way?" He pauses. "Answer me. How can anyone help it?"

I won't answer such an absurd question. Instead I say, "They'll ticket you if you just park here. We have to go around."

"You mean they'll ticket you," he says viciously as he engages the parking brake. He even takes the keys so I can't correct his mistake.

"John!" He storms off down the street, walking right past our destination. If he thinks I'll follow him, he's wrong. I'm going where I intended to go. "Gregory Lestrade, please," I tell the front office.

"Inspector Lestrade is in a meeting," says the secretary. "I'll tell him you came by."

"This is important!" I say, so entirely agitated at the morning's events that my mother's accent—the accent of my early childhood—makes an appearance in my pronunciation.

"I'm sorry, he's simply not available, _Mr. Holmes_." she says severely. "You'll have to wait, like the rest of the Bay Area." She sneers, and I suspect that Lestrade has given her explicit permission to be as rude to me as she likes.

"Where is his 'meeting'? Wait, no, shut up. I know where it is." I storm away, confident that I know where he's holding his press conference. Gregory Lestrade has no right to ignore Sherlock Holmes, press conference or no.

An idea comes into my head that makes me chuckle loudly as I stride down the hallway. It will require just a bit of hacking and a whole lot of audacity, but it just might get his attention.

* * *

John Watson storms down Vallejo, biting his lip and attempting unsuccessfully to keep himself in check. How could Sherlock not understand the way that people saw him? Initially, John assumed that Sherlock must be a psychopath, of one kind or another. He has many of the characteristics, too many for it to be ignored.

But that couldn't be right. Psychopaths know how other people see them: as suave, charming, and manipulative, with their dark interior concealed to all but those who look for it.

Sherlock is not any of those things. His core, his unfeeling, unemotional core, is plain to anyone who knows him. Anyone can tell that he cares little for the human element of any mystery. And besides, a psychopath would not be on the side of the law. A psychopath, decides John, would be at the center of a crime syndicate. No, Sherlock was something else, and the name for it was on the tip of John's tongue. He just couldn't—

He doesn't notice he's reached Columbus until he steps into oncoming traffic and is nearly run down. "Asshole!" shouts one driver, speeding by and flipping him off.

"I didn't—" begins John, but the offending car is already a hundred yards away. "Fine," he mutters to himself, "be that way."

And then the word hits him, with as much of an impact as the car would have made had the driver not swerved.

_Asperger's. _Well, it explains an awful lot. He knows a psychologist, doesn't he? Many psychologists. John slips his phone out of his pocket and dials Clara's number. Just because Harry isn't speaking to her doesn't mean John can't.

"John," she answers, sounding a bit groggy. "What do you want, 'cos if it's about Harry, it can wait until a reasonable hour. Or at least until the coffee's brewed."

"I just have a question for you."

"Shoot."

"What are the symptoms of Asperger's Disorder?"

"Why not just ask me to recite the dictionary, John?" she says sarcastically. "Why, do you know someone?"

"Er, yes," replies John quickly, "now if you couldn't make it quick, if it isn't too much trouble."

"Give me a list of symptoms."

"Well, he's a flipping genius, for one thing. Reads people like books. No friends to speak of. Cold. Way too cold."

"This is probably preemptive, John, but for the sake of six in the morning, I'll say it sounds like your friend has Asperger's. I'm going to bed."

"Thanks, Clara. Thanks a bunch."

"Was that sarcasm?

"Of course not."

"Right, of course not. John Watson is never sarcastic. Have a good day, John, and tell Harry I'm waiting to hear from her attorney."

"Gotcha."

John hangs up and taps his toe. As far as he's concerned, this changes nothing. Sherlock has no excuse for his behavior. _Maybe I'll just move out, he thinks. _

…_absolutely not._

* * *

_Please review! _


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